Bearclaw Valley I'd never want once from the cherry tree

Cole watched Ancelin with a measured gaze, his own breathing steady despite the exertion of the hunt. The mangled remains of his own kill lay in the snow, dark smears of blood marking the struggle. He didn’t flinch when Ancelin tore into it—didn’t reprimand him for the reckless display—just tracked the younger man’s movements with sharp eyes, weighing his ferocity against his usefulness.
The second coyote was still out there, and Ancelin had already set off after it, driven by instinct and bloodlust. Cole exhaled through his nose, watching him go.
Shaking out his coat, he turned back to his own work, ensuring the scavenger he’d taken down was well and truly finished. No loose ends. No risks. When he was satisfied, he lifted his head, gaze following the path Ancelin had taken, before setting off after him, slow and methodical. If the boy wanted blood, he’d make sure it was spilled with purpose.